


Last One Out, Turn Off The Lights

by Zygzy



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alien Culture, Alien Mythology/Religion, Desperation, Extinction, Gen, Post-Apocalypse, Science Fiction & Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-09-15 10:50:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9231551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zygzy/pseuds/Zygzy
Summary: They all knew the end would come, sooner or later. To spurn oblivion was his task, but the geneforge could no longer carry the weight of generations, and the only path left to them is in the shadow of dead gods.





	

Failure is difficult to accept. It is a bitter resolution, unsatisfying, unwelcome. Even a minor defeat can become a brand that sears it’s passing upon the memories of those that suffered its presence. Yet there are some that extol it, proclaiming it a gateway to knowledge unknown. Such a hollow consolation is befitting fools that spend more time stumbling over their own feet than achieving any real progress. Learning from our mistakes; the mantra for those that would hope to excuse their shame. If the information gleaned from failure were already known, the error that caused it would not be made.

But here, on the cold floor, in the crushing dark, Ahvoris wished he were such a fool. Perhaps so blinded, the pain in his chest would not be so great, for failure such as this was beyond acceptance.

Red lights flickered steadily above as the hand in his own grew cold. Despite the incessant blaring in his ears, all he could hear was the faint whisper of a breath bleeding away. His muscles squirmed with the need to do something, anything, yet rationale kept him chained to the ground. There was no point in satisfying the desire to perform empty gestures; comfort was all he could offer that held any real value.

At last, he held stillness. With great care he laid his most recent acquaintance on the floor. Briefly wringing his fingers together, Ahvoris raised a hand.

“Shaper?”

His mouth trembled in preparation for words his mind struggled to form. Licking cool teeth, he managed to croak out, “Bring me a wrap.”

Feet scraped behind Ahvoris as his order was carried out, and in moments a bundle of fabric was placed in his hand. Sirens continued to wail as he worked. In his excitement Ahvoris forgot just how loud and aggravating the alarm could shriek. Making one last fold, he leaned back with eyes fixed firmly on the darkened wrap.

“Someone, shut off that accursed alarm; the emergency has passed.”

The blaring continued for two more intervals before abruptly falling silent. As the echoes died, the quiet sound of liquid dripping onto the ground took their place. The door to an evacuated vat hung open, spilling what was left of its contents. It had once held so much promise, they all did. There was nothing there now.

“Your will, Shaper?”

The words resounded in his skull. His will? What of his will? If the desires in his heart could be met, his will would be obsolete. If he could be granted a single wish then no set of shoulders would be forced to bear the mantle of Shaper. And if that were the case, he would be spared the duty of sharing his grief.

“Cease production,” he whispered.

“Pardon, Shaper?”

They had heard him, he knew they had, but Ahvoris could not blame them for being so obtuse. Who would hope to hear such words?

Raising his voice, he repeated the command. “Cease production. Any that have yet to reach completion… must be flushed from their tanks.”

The response was slow, but eventually the assembled caretakers obeyed his command. Distant lights grew dim, horns called in sporadic, mournful tones, and tubes rattled as the grim task took its toll.

Slowly rising to his feet, Ahvoris collected the bundle he had carefully wrapped. Fluids leaked from the soaked fabric, spilling down his arm and occasionally tickling flesh as they worked their way back to the floor. Row after row of vats fell behind as he wandered up a grate walkway, the sound of alarms ringing as the caretakers continued to empty tanks of their burden. Ahvoris ascended a flight of stairs leading up to a deck overlooking the production chamber. He paused to face a sea of twinkling lights. One by one, they began to wink out, and gaps slowly grew throughout the aisles. Some of his assistants spared him a glance as they moved between tanks. Though it was too dark, and most were much too far, he could easily imagine the confusion on their faces.

The magistrates were wise to appoint him as Shaper. To plot sevrazine continuity is a delicate task, one that requires constant adjustments and thorough investigation of possible outcomes throughout every cycle. Each soul demanded purity, and the path to perfection began with production, his responsibility. And as a gardener tends his beds, so too did Ahvoris pull unwanted weeds. There was no joy to be found in ending lives yet unlived, but he understood the necessity. The magistrates understood the necessity as well, that is why he was chosen to bear the mantle; no other could do as he had done, not in these trying times.

The urge to fall into a reprocessing pool had never been stronger.

Ahvoris pushed aside a narrow door, his hand slipping down the metal surface, and left the ongoing purge. The hallway he stumbled into was dark, only the dim light of flickering lanterns to guide his steps. The Shaper did his best to walk with dignity befitting his station, but the weight carried in both arms dragged tired shoulders down.

What now?

They had all known the geneforge would fail. Since the first victim had emerged wailing from his vat and shortly suffocated under his own weight, it was apparent recycled materials were no longer serviceable. Their supply had finally been exhausted and no matter how long he tampered with its composition it would remain so. Some had pushed to overlook the issue, out of spite or misplaced hope, and though everyone realized the futility, the magistrates agreed to continue production. It had only been a matter of time. The moment was upon them.

What now?

The scent of fresh rain slid into his nostrils, cool and clean. Ahvoris had reached the atrium. Above, grey clouds released a meager drizzle that swirled through the air before coming to rest on his skin. Assistants, unfazed by the weather conditions, quickly marched across the plated floor. Quiet conversations fell to whispers and feet came to a sudden stop as one by one became aware of his presence.

Ahvoris aimed a spindly finger at the nearest group. “You,” he commanded. “Come.”

Of the three he had singled out, one timidly crossed the short distance and politely bowed before him.

“Yes, Shaper?” she whispered.

Realizing just how quiet the atrium had become, Ahvoris lowered his own voice. “Go to the relay, deliver my message to the magistrates: we shall make no more.”

He slipped a glistening hand into his coat, briefly tugging against a belt. Removing his hand, he placed a small cylinder in hers.

“Use this prior to establishing a link. It should permit a direct connection.”

The trembling assistant gave a nod. “Yes, Shaper!”

Turning swiftly on her heels, she sprinted away. A number of her peers quickly stepped aside as the assistant tore her way to the facility’s entrance, kicking up water as she ran. When she vanished into the hazy day, their heads turned back to Ahvoris.

“Continue your work.”

And with his words, bodies lurched into motion. Some were no doubt confused, and many more clearly suspicious, but the geneforge was sacred. Emergency or not, discipline was their virtue; inaction had no place within the walls of creation. Ahvoris brought one foot before the other and continued his journey. He climbed another set of stairs leading deeper into the facility.

The second level was little more than an open hall stretching left and right with hatches at either end granting access to the geneforge’s inner workings. Directly before Ahvoris however was a large entrance, nearly twice his height and sealed tight with a pair of doors. A duo of guards stood to either side of the entrance, fingers wrapped tightly about their rifles. One gave a polite nod at the Shaper’s approach while the other lifted an arm and pushed a single door open. Ahvoris whispered his thanks before slipping through.

The chamber he stood in was well lit by a few lanterns humming with a brilliant, white light. Smooth walls of polished metal formed an impressive circle, characters of every shape and size etched along their length, gleaming in the pale illumination. Similar inscriptions were carved into the floor, forming a multitude of rings that steadily became smaller. At the center of it all was a platform slightly raised off the ground, and crowning it was a humble altar. Ahvoris inched his way forward. Every step produced a faint echo that joined the lanterns in their quiet chorus. Kneeling, the Shaper set his bundle down at the altar’s base, his narrow fingers delicately peeling back the fabric they had so carefully woven.

She would have been beautiful. Slender fingers, round eyes, sweet lips, fair skin, yet the length of her body was dotted with the warm purple of bruises where blood had escaped their veins. She would have been strong, to emerge from her tank fighting for life, screaming for breath, few enter the world with such ferocity. But even the mighty can become weary, and in a moment of weakness her own body had strangled the child. Wounds that no eye could see, but a surgeon could discover, likely lay just beneath the surface of her blemished skin.

Leaning back, Ahvoris spread his arms and bent his neck to gaze at the ceiling. Taking a deep breath, he prayed. The Shaper who dutifully served as proxy to the Lost God for the sake of his people prayed not only to the Creator, but to the Goddesses as well. He prayed to the spirits of the forest, of the sea, of the mountains, and of the wastes. He prayed to ancestors long dead, to ancient heroes who carved their deeds upon the face of the world. Ahvoris prayed until his tongue was dry and his voice became hoarse, and when he could not think of another word to say, fell silent.

“What now?”


End file.
